


I guess, I just don't know

by rowenablade



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Blow Jobs, Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Dream Sex, First Time, Good Omens Kink Meme, I'll stop referencing Velvet Underground songs when I'm damn good and ready, Loss of Virginity, Love Confessions, Mutual Pining, Other, Porn with Feelings, Post-Episode: Good Omens: Lockdown, Praise Kink, So probably never, They're both super into it there's just some lack of communication, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, slight dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:06:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27270916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowenablade/pseuds/rowenablade
Summary: He looks very much at peace, and for a second Aziraphale thinks it may be better not to interrupt. But he’s missed the sight of Crowley so badly and now he’sright here, as much as he can be said to be anywhere in this place. Aziraphale clears his throat.“Crowley,” he says. “I’m sorry to drop in unannounced, but-“At the sound of his name, Crowley’s eyes open. When Aziraphale sayssorry, his bare feet have hit the floor. By the time the angel manages to clamber over the syllables ofunannounced, Crowley has slid his arms around Aziraphale’s waist, pushed him back against the hallway wall and kissed him, open-mouthed and hungrily.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 44
Kudos: 390
Collections: Good Omens Kink Meme, Top Aziraphale Recs





	I guess, I just don't know

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what I did with my life before the Good Omens Kink Meme, I don't know why I had to drag "Heroin" by the Velvet Underground into this, and I don't know what I'm gonna do next. [Here](https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/4446.html?thread=3202398#cmt3202398) is the prompt, Somebody bless this fandom.

Aziraphale believes in fairness. He can’t help it.

All through the spring and summer, he’s followed the rules; keeping the shop closed, keeping his distance, gently encouraging the few humans he’s encountered to follow safety protocols. He’s been an absolute paragon of dutiful citizenry “in these difficult times”, as the papers are fond of repeating seemingly hundreds of times a week.

He’s been good. He deserves a damned reward.

Unfortunately, Aziraphale’s damned reward still isn’t answering his phone.

He’s left messages, more than the voicemail should actually be able to hold, if such a thing had occurred to either of them. Play them one after the other, and they would form a sort of one-sided conversation, an oral diary of Aziraphale’s deterioration from bemusement to boredom to utter frustration. They can _finally_ be together. It’s safe, it’s allowed, even advisable from a mental health standpoint, and they can’t because Crowley is still, infuriatingly, fast asleep.

Aziraphale doesn’t know if he’s going to hug him or give him a good hard shake the next time he sees him.

He’s considered just walking over to Mayfair and knocking on the door, but finds himself unable to wholly commit to the idea. Crowley’s building has a doorman; surely, with new regulations in place, he won’t just let Aziraphale in unaccompanied by a resident? What if Crowley doesn’t answer the door? What if he _does_ , and it turns out he doesn’t want to bubble their households after all, that Aziraphale interpreted that “slither over and watch you eat cake” line in entirely the wrong way?

No. He needs to talk to Crowley first. That shouldn’t be so hard.

When he comes up with the idea to visit the demon in his dreams, he nearly kicks himself for not thinking of it sooner.

In his defense, it wasn’t an angelic ability he used all that often. Appearing in a human’s dreams would do in a pinch, if one really needed to get an idea across to one of them without leaving a celestial paper trail, but it was always a complete coin-toss on whether they actually came away with the message you meant for them to receive. And human dreams were so _messy_ , all twisted corridors and false faces and coded messages. Aziraphale preferred to do his work in the waking world, where things were civilized and you didn’t have to wade through steaming lakes of bouillabaisse wearing someone’s dead mum’s face to get them to listen to what you had to say, hardly ever.

Crowley, though, not being human, would be able to impose a bit more structure in his dream-world. Aziraphale has seen his flat; surely it must be a reflection of Crowley’s subconscious, all those clean lines and sharp angles, as well as extremely flimsy subtext in his decorating choices. (Aziraphale is still congratulating himself for not saying a single word about that statue in the hall.) Aziraphale is totally confident that he knows Crowley well enough to navigate his dreamscape and communicate with the demon, let him know the good news and encourage him to wake up.

And if Crowley refuses…well…

Well, Aziraphale will know that, and can set his mind to other things. Whatever they might be.

He makes sure his body will be comfortable while he is away from it; sets himself up in the bookshop’s coziest chair, with the lights low and some soft music in the background. He loosens his tie, slips his shoes off and folds his hands over his chest.

He closes his human eyes, and opens his angelic ones.

The transition is always hectic, at first. For a few minutes Aziraphale is without any physical perception of himself, just a pair of eyes adrift in a swirling sea of silver-white, then he bears down a little and reasserts his form as he prefers it; human-shaped, mostly. His wings he leaves away- the psychic currents in this realm tickle his feathers something awful. He blinks with newly-reclaimed eyelids, and surveys the world of dreams.

It is midday, so it is not as cluttered as it would be if Aziraphale were to do this at night, but still London is crowded, bubbles of color and light clustered together and sprawling far beyond Aziraphale’s line of sight. Dreamers, encased in their own little worlds, each one jewel-bright and unique.

Even from Aziraphale’s vantage point a neighborhood away, he can see Crowley’s. Seeing it among the human dreamscapes reminds Aziraphale of those models astronomers like to use to represent the solar system, where the Sun is a beach ball and Pluto is a grain of sand, or something like that. Crowley’s dreams tower above the others, a column with a rippling marbled surface of black and red and gold. Rich, exotic and imposing; exactly how the demon chooses to present himself in reality.

It occurs to Aziraphale that it might be a rather unpleasant place to be, the dreams of a demon. Then he decides that’s all the more reason for him to check up on his friend, make sure he’s getting on alright. 

He drifts toward the column of Crowley’s subconscious, reaches it and lays a palm against the surface. It’s warm and smooth. He pushes, and the surface cracks like the crust on a creme brûlée. That’s the first thing Aziraphale thinks to compare it to, and he wonders how badly his perception is colored by his yearning for London’s restaurant scene. How much wishful thinking is at play here.

He slips inside, and is unsurprised to find that it is entirely different than what outsiders are encouraged to perceive.

He is standing in the entryway to Crowley’s flat, or a place very similar to Crowley’s flat. Here and there Aziraphale can spot elements that must be lifted from previous domiciles; a column from a Roman villa, an ornate fireplace that would surely violate several building codes if it really existed. He’s highly amused to spot his own couch from the bookshop in Crowley’s living room.

There’s music here as well, low and scratchy, a cracked male voice singing, “I wish… I was born… a thousand years ago…” 

And beneath it, Aziraphale can hear Crowley’s voice, singing along, barely above a whisper. Coming from where, at least in the real world, Aziraphale recalls there being a bedroom.

Not that he had gotten much of a look. He had glimpsed it, walking past to get to the kitchen to pour them both a drink, the one night he’d been here. Had stopped for a split second to consider the bedroom- the bed- before pushing such foolish thoughts away and moving on.

Not much of a look at all, but when he stands in the doorway to Crowley’s dream-bedroom, he can immediately tell the difference.

It’s still decorated in Crowley’s distinct aesthetic, but there’s something almost cozy about it; the dark blankets on the bed invitingly soft, the gray walls reassuringly strong, everything close and warm and comfortable. A den, almost, a burrow. Somewhere for a snake to safely curl up and dream away the dark times.

There’s one thing that doesn’t belong, and that’s Aziraphale’s coat. It’s hanging over the back of a chair as if it had been casually tossed in a very un-Aziraphale manner. Seeing it gives Aziraphale the unsettling impression that its owner has only just stepped out, that there’s a dream-version of Aziraphale drifting around these halls and any second now they’ll stumble into each other and have to make awkward conversation.

Crowley is sprawled on his back in the center of the bed, clad in loose black silk, eyes closed, singing along softly with the strange music.

He looks very much at peace, and for a second Aziraphale thinks it may be better not to interrupt. But he’s missed the sight of Crowley so badly and now he’s _right here_ , as much as he can be said to be anywhere in this place. Aziraphale clears his throat.

“Crowley,” he says. “I’m sorry to drop in unannounced, but-“

At the sound of his name, Crowley’s eyes open. When Aziraphale says _sorry_ , his bare feet have hit the floor. By the time the angel manages to clamber over the syllables of _unannounced_ , Crowley has slid his arms around Aziraphale’s waist, pushed him back against the hallway wall and kissed him, open-mouthed and hungrily.

“Angel,” he sighs. “I’m so glad you’re back.”

“Back?” Aziraphale has time to ask before his words are swallowed by a torrent of kisses. Crowley, who in the real world Aziraphale has seen cut grapes in half before eating them, appears to be ravenous. He sucks at Aziraphale’s bottom lip, darts his tongue out to taste the angel’s mouth, plants searching little kisses along his jawline when Aziraphale becomes overwhelmed and freezes up. 

Well, this kind of greeting certainly answers a few questions Aziraphale has.

The thing to say now is _Crowley, you’re having a dream and we need to talk._ That is definitely what Aziraphale, who believes in fairness and honesty and communication, is supposed to say in this moment. 

“Crowley,” he begins, putting his hands up against the demon’s shoulders. That’s as far as he gets before Crowley moans, “Aziraphale,” in return and miracles the both of them shirtless.

Aziraphale registers the shock of it as goose-prickles all over his dream-skin, everywhere except the parts of him that are pressed flush against Crowley’s body. Crowley’s warm, so warm, and Aziraphale finds himself leaning into that warmth unbidden, as a flower towards the sun. Crowley growls his approval and tilts Aziraphale’s face up to his, fingers tangling in the angel’s hair.

“Gorgeous,” he whispers. “Simply gorgeous, my angel, my own.”

Aziraphale’s heart lurches at the words, at the wallop of love he senses behind them. Crowley’s aura is bursting with it, this lush, humid, primal love. Again Aziraphale thinks of snakes in their dens, thinks _mate_ and _mine_ and _safety_ and understands he’s picking it up from Crowley, feeling what Crowley feels in this place he’s created.

This place that apparently includes Aziraphale, or at least his simulacrum.

It’s not as if he hasn’t fantasized about this, or some version of this, being a part of their reunion. He’s felt the desire between them in the waking world, felt it even through their carefully-crafted defenses, has dreamed of those walls coming down and it feeling exactly like this; urgent, heated and _right._

He knows angels aren’t supposed to feel lust, but he’s also justified it to himself that the only person he’s ever lusted for is Crowley, and it’s not a sin if there’s love involved as well. And there is love, he loves Crowley so much he feels that it may bury him, loves him so much that his absence has become a hardship beyond his willpower to endure.

Crowley sinks to his knees and gazes up adoringly at Aziraphale, eyes practically aglow.

“Can I?” he says, sounding short of breath. Sounding like he barely has the patience to wait for the answer.

“Yes,” Aziraphale gasps. He has no idea what he’s giving Crowley permission to do, but he trusts him, and in this moment finds the demon completely irresistible.

Well, of course he does. They’re inside Crowley’s mind, after all, and Crowley has no desire to _be_ resistible.

Crowley snaps his fingers, and the rest of their clothes vanish. Aziraphale is abashed to suddenly find his Effort bobbing up into Crowley’s face, although the eager way the demon wraps his hand around it leads Aziraphale to believe it isn’t unexpected or unwelcome. He hadn’t even noticed how hard he is; it’s not a terribly familiar sensation, and he’s never been as aroused as this, his knees nearly buckling at Crowley’s first touch.

“Angel,” Crowley purrs through a shameless grin. “So _big._ ”

Is it? Aziraphale has never considered such a thing. He is surprised when Crowley takes the whole thing into his mouth, first by the physical feat of such an act and then by the heart-stopping sensation of gliding over the demon’s tongue and hitting the back of his throat.

“Crowley!” he yelps, bracing his hands against the wall to keep himself from collapsing.

In response, Crowley makes an extremely graphic noise in his throat and then pulls back until just the tip of Aziraphale’s prick is in his mouth. He teases it a moment with a flicker of his tongue, then swallows him deep again, and all Aziraphale can do is throw his head back and moan.

“You…” he stammers when he can form words again. “Oh, bless it, Crowley, you’re so…”

“Go on,” Crowley urges, running his tongue up Aziraphale’s shaft. “Say it, if you need to. Tell me what a filthy slut I am.”

A _what?_ The term is so far from what Aziraphale had on his mind that he just goggles for a second. “Is…is that what you want?”

There’s a change in Crowley’s eyes now, something hard and sharp in the cast of his pupils. “S’the truth, isn’t it?”

“I…” Aziraphale doesn’t know what to say. He knows what he _should_ say, and Crowley has given him some insight into what he’s _expected_ to say, but neither of them are what he really wants. Skin thrumming with new sensations and still dizzy with love, he ends up only being able to give voice to what he truly feels. “I was going to say, ‘you’re beautiful’. Is…is that alright?”

It’s like flipping a switch. Crowley’s jaw drops a little, his eyes go huge and soft. His posture sags, like he might curl up into a ball at Aziraphale’s feet.

“Yesss,” he hisses, sliding his palms up Aziraphale’s thighs. “Oh, yes, _please_.”

“You are,” Aziraphale says, shuddering when Crowley takes him in his mouth again. “So beautiful, so fine. I…oh, God, Crowley, I’ve wanted you for so long…”

Eyes closed, Crowley whimpers around Aziraphale’s cock. He’s sucking it slow and deep now, his long throat muscles working steadily, his breaths heavy and hot. Aziraphale reaches down and runs his fingers through Crowley’s hair, traces a knuckle over his cheekbone, repeats these motions when Crowley breaks rhythm for a second to nod his head.

“So good, so sweet.” Aziraphale is babbling now, words coming out in a steady stream of encouragement as Crowley’s movements grow increasingly urgent. “I want you…want you so badly, my darling, my…oh, _fuck_ -“

His words are cut off by Crowley fluttering his eyes open and locking them on Aziraphale’s. He notices as he stares down at Crowley that the demon has one hand between his own legs now, two fingers working in quick little circles. It’s so brazen, so wanton, so unbelievably _hot_ that Aziraphale is rendered speechless. 

Crowley’s moaning rhythmically now, sharp little sounds that send vibrations from the tip of Aziraphale’s cock to the base of his spine. Aziraphale has never done this before, but the cadence here is unmistakable. _He’s close,_ Aziraphale thinks, _he’s going to come_ , and that idea, the notion that Crowley is going to make himself come _with Aziraphale in his mouth_ is so deliciously shocking that Aziraphale completely forgets to consider proper decorum for this situation, and comes in a long, hot gush over Crowley’s tongue.

“S-sorry…so sorry…” is the first thing out of Aziraphale’s mouth besides helpless groans. He feels his cheeks burning as he looks down at Crowley, but Crowley doesn’t see it. He’s nuzzling against the soft skin of Aziraphale’s belly, kissing softly below his navel, stroking his thighs. At last he rolls gold and shining eyes up at Aziraphale and breaks into another grin.

“Bad angel,” he says fondly. “You didn’t give me time to catch up.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale protests weakly. The demon rises to his feet and tugs gently at Aziraphale’s hand, guiding him into the bedroom. “I…you should…”

“ _You_ should get that cock up again this instant, if you really want to make it up to me,” Crowley cuts him off. He pulls Aziraphale down onto the bed and then rolls on top of him, swiveling his hips. “Come on, angel, don’t make me beg.”

He’s stunning, like this. Roguish smile, long limbs gleaming with sweat, his Effort flushed pink and dripping wet beneath its crown of dark red hair. Without thinking Aziraphale reaches out to touch, finds it achingly soft and slick beneath his fingers. Crowley tips his head back and groans, grinding down on Aziraphale’s hand.

“Please,” he whimpers, “please, Aziraphale, I need you in me, _please._ ”

Aziraphale’s fully hard again, his dream-self needing no miraculous encouragement. He nods and moves his hands up Crowley’s legs and over his waist, contours his hands have only dreamed of- although this is still only a dream, he must remember that, he really needs to say something-

“Yes, beautiful, yes, take what you need,” is what comes out.

Crowley bites his lip as he lowers himself onto Aziraphale’s length, guiding the angel with one hand while the other braces on his chest for balance. He’s so warm, so wet, so soft, it’s enough to drag Aziraphale right up to the edge again and he has to squeeze his eyes shut to concentrate and keep from tipping over. He wants Crowley to feel good too, needs it, because if this is to be the only time this happens Aziraphale means to pleasure the demon the way he deserves.

“Show me,” he gasps as Crowley begins to roll his hips. “Show me where to touch you.”

Is that surprise on Crowley’s face, that widening of his eyes? Aziraphale can’t say; everything is too new. Crowley takes his hand, though, and guides it to a spot just above where Aziraphale is thrusting up into him, a hard little bud of flesh that Aziraphale rubs his thumb over, trying to mimic the motions he saw Crowley doing to himself.

“Oh,” Crowley sighs, hands dropping to Aziraphale’s chest. “Oh, fuck, that’s good.”

He starts to raise himself up and sink down again, Aziraphale’s cock sliding in and out. He’s so wet Aziraphale can hear it, so wet his thumb keeps slipping from that one perfect spot. To get better purchase Aziraphale adds his index finger, rolling that nub between the two, and Crowley drops his head down between his shoulders and _wails._

“Don’t stop…don’t fucking stop…”

“I won’t,” Aziraphale promises. “I won’t, darling, take it, everything you need…”

True to his word, he doesn’t stop when Crowley comes. Aziraphale can tell when he does, can hear it in the way his voice breaks and the breath is punched from his chest. He doesn’t stop fucking himself on Aziraphale’s cock, though, so Aziraphale takes that to mean he wants more. And he’ll have it, if that’s what he wants. It’s his dream, after all.

Crowley’s more sensitive after coming once, needs only light touches from Aziraphale to elicit the same sort of noises as before. Aziraphale takes advantage of this to try something new. He sits up, scoots himself back against the headboard and pulls Crowley more firmly onto his lap. Crowley looks puzzled at first, then rocks his hips experimentally and shivers with pleasure. He’s perfectly angled to grind that sweet spot of his against Aziraphale’s belly, the warmth and pressure just enough to bring him over the edge again…and then a third time.

They kiss through it, clutching at each other’s hair and arms and shoulders. Aziraphale tastes salt, wonders which one of them is crying and decides it’s probably him. Surely this must be too routine for Crowley to be overwhelmed enough to shed tears.

“I love you, angel,” Crowley whispers, kissing down the side of Aziraphale’s neck. “I don’t care if I shouldn’t, I don’t care, I love you.”

It’s real. This place isn’t, but the love is, Aziraphale can feel it, and so he doesn’t hesitate at all. He presses his lips to the shell of Crowley’s ear and whispers, “I love you too, my darling. So much.”

Crowley stiffens in his arms. Straightens up. Looks down at him, still straddling his lap, eyes going wide.

“You…do?”

Aziraphale blinks. “Of course. Surely you know by now…”

Crowley’s eyes are nearly popping out of his head. He looks up and down, at the way their bodies are still entangled, at the angel’s perplexed expression.

“ _Aziraphale?_ ” he asks incredulously, and then disappears.

The walls and furnishing burst into shifting black smoke. Aziraphale feels a bolt of panic before opening his eyes to find himself back in the bookshop. Fully-clothed, sunk into his comfortable chair, afternoon sunlight streaming in around him.

Oh no. Oh _no_.

Aziraphale stands up entirely too quickly and has to sit down again before the ensuing headrush sends him crashing to the floor. What has he done? How could he be so reckless, so selfish? Crowley’s his friend, Crowley trusted him, and now there’s a good chance Aziraphale has ruined everything…

The only thing to do, Aziraphale decides, is to own up to it all. Tell Crowley the truth. He tried to reach the demon in his dreams, some mistakes were made, it was a violation of trust but Aziraphale will never do it again. If Crowley is angry, Aziraphale will accept it. If he never wants to speak to Aziraphale again, he more than has the right.

At least he’s reasonably sure Crowley is awake now. The thought sends another pang of guilt through Aziraphale’s chest.

He grasps the phone with a shaking hand, meaning to dial the number he knows by heart, but it rings before he can lift it from its cradle.

Ah. Well, that shouldn’t come as a surprise, if Crowley is awake and irate about what’s happened. Aziraphale picks up the phone and manages a quavering, “Hello?”, thinking that if this is a call from someone trying to sell him life insurance or aluminum siding, he’s going to see if he still remembers how to curse people blind.

“Heeeey, angel,” Crowley says. Forcefully casual. “Uh, just woke up and thought I’d…check in, see what’s going on in the neighborhood…find out what you’ve been up to…”

He trails off, and to Aziraphale it confirms the worst. Crowley’s furious, he knows that Aziraphale knows exactly what he did, and he’s going to make the angel be the one to say it.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale begins. “First of all, I am so sorry. I only wanted to get in touch with you, and I wasn’t sure when you would wake up.”

“Ah.” Crowley’s voice is clipped now, guarded. “So that _was_ really you? Uh…back there? Then? However it works?”

“It was me.” Aziraphale hangs his head even though Crowley can’t see it. “I never meant to violate your trust, it was unconscionable of me, and of course I understand if you never wish to speak to me again-“

“Hang on, now, who’s been violated? I mean, nothing actually happened, did it?”

Aziraphale can feel his ears grow hot. “It didn’t feel like _nothing_.”

“Well, no, it felt like…well, that’s the thing. I kinda thought I should be apologizing to you, if anything.”

“Oh, I should hardly think-“

“Cause the thing is, well,” Crowley plows on. “It’s…bloody Heaven, this is embarrassing…the only reason I, er, threw myself at you like that is, well, it’s not the first time you’ve turned up. In my dreams. Only, not, y’know, _you_ you.”

“Yes, I gathered that,” Aziraphale says carefully. “But that doesn’t excuse-“

“So, for me at least, it was kind of business as usual. Well, not _usual_ , that was…still can’t feel my bloody legs, to be honest, but that’s not the point…the point is, um. What’s the point? Right. You obviously didn’t…come over…planning for that to happen. Did you?”

“No,” Aziraphale answers, desperate to get an explanation in over Crowley’s hedging. “No, I swear, and I know I should have put a stop to it, but-“

“Give me a little credit, angel. I’d be a pretty crap demon if I can’t seduce someone in my own dreams, yeah?” Is this more wishful thinking, or is there an edge of laughter in Crowley’s voice?

“Here’s the thing, though,” Crowley continues. “I thought it was just a dream, just a _really fucking good_ dream, right up until you said…you love me.”

Those last three words fall so heavily, in the manner of a crushing burden finally laid down. Finally, a chance to speak this thing between them, and it’s all gone so wrong.

“I do,” Aziraphale whispers sadly. “I do love you, which is why I-“

“I knew it wasn’t a dream then, see,” Crowley blurts. “I knew it, cause I…I never dreamed that before…never dreamed you would say that to me…”

He falls silent, the implication of what he’s just said crashing over Aziraphale like a tidal wave.

“You…you thought I didn’t love you back?” Aziraphale dares to ask.

“Well, I know you’re supposed to love everyone, I guess,” Crowley mutters. “But obviously it’s different with me, and I thought, I mean, sometimes I caught you looking at me a few times and I thought alright, maybe he wants to fuck me, but he can’t _love_ me, no one can- not like _that_ -“

“Crowley,” Aziraphale’s voice is jagged, scared and hopeful at the same time. “I love you…more than anything else. And as for anything carnal, I…well, I wanted that too, but only if it could be an act of love. That’s the only way I would have done it. And only with you.”

There’s a pause, in which Aziraphale can hear a few sharp intakes of breath. Is Crowley pacing about the room? Is he crying?

“You’ve… _never?_ ” he finally rasps.

“No,” Aziraphale says. “Or, yes, now, I suppose, or not…does this count? My body was here the whole time, obviously, so that’s still, ah, mint condition, so to speak, but I know it’s complicated, metaphysically-“

“And _you’re_ apologizing to _me?_ ”

“Well…”

The silence stretches out, both of them just breathing awkwardly down the phone line, waiting for the other to decide how they’re both supposed to feel about this.

“So.”

“So…”

“Uh…why were you there, anyway? In my dream?”

It actually takes a minute for Aziraphale to remember. His whole awareness of the state of the world has been completely upended in the last few hours.

“Oh! I…well I was going to ask if you wanted some company. We’re allowed to join households, if we want, and the last time we talked you seemed amenable to…coming over and…passing the time.”

“Yesss. I did, didn’t I?” God help him, Aziraphale can _hear_ Crowley’s smirk. “Could still be…amenable. If you haven’t had your fill of me yet, angel.”

“Frankly, my darling, I’m not sure that’s possible,” Aziraphale breathes. 

The line goes dead.

Aziraphale looks stunned at the phone in his hand, heart breaking for the second time that day, and then the bell over the bookshop door rings. The door is locked, has been locked for months, but of course Crowley’s not going to let a little thing like that get in his way.

He’s carrying a black leather valise, which he immediately drops to pull Aziraphale into his arms.

“Is that a challenge?” he asks, dipping his head down for a kiss.

Aziraphale snaps his fingers. The door locks itself again, and the blinds draw themselves down.

“It’s a promise.”


End file.
